A Thousand Tears
by lostinanotherworld24
Summary: Alternate ending to 2x17, where Clay doesn't survive the bombing. Clay's funeral, through Stella's eyes


A/N: This is an angst-fest, there's really no way around it. As always, thanks goes to the lovely burnmedown, for the endless encouragement. I hope you enjoy reading, and don't forget to drop a review. Thank you!

The sudden beeping of her alarm clock is what jerks her to awareness, the shrill sound driving a very large stake through her head. Clumsily she reaches over and shuts off the damn thing, throwing an arm over her eyes as her head sinks back into the pillow. For a second, she can't remember why she would set an alarm on a Saturday, and then remembers.

_Fuck, it's his funeral today. _

That might also explain why her mouth is drier than the desert, and why her head feels like it's splitting apart at the seams. Overrun with heartache last night, she attempted to drink away her feelings, and now is paying for it. As if his teammates don't hate her enough, showing up hungover will definitely give them more ammunition. Although Sonny had a healthy relationship with alcohol on a _good _day, so she'll more than likely be in good company.

Eventually, she forces herself to get up. Food hasn't been a thing ever since she got the news, and it looks like that trend will continue. Even glancing at the meager offerings of her fridge makes her want to puke, let alone actually shoving something down her throat. She sips at a mug of coffee instead and stares out the window of her living room, watching rain pour down in sheets.

_Had it been raining when he died? _

Tears should form at the thought, but she's not sure she has any left. Numbness envelopes her now, a deep well that she'll never climb out of. He's gone, and he's never coming back, and she'll never get to make things right with him. Never will anyone else get the chance to love him, to show him that sometimes people do stay. That thought pains her more than anything, that she had contributed to his issues by being just another person who left.

These thoughts haunt her as she dresses, a simple black dress slipped over her head, followed by a black cardigan and simple diamond studs. She wears minimal makeup, and clips back her hair. In the mirror, she wants to wince at the paleness of her face emphasized by the dark purple bruising underneath her eyes, highlighting the gauntness of her cheeks. She's a fucking wreck, has been ever since they told her.

Few people are milling around when she arrives, clustered in small groups, with some wearing dress blues. The team is all there, huddled in a circle near the front, where a blown-up picture of him stands. He's grinning broadly at the camera, blue eyes sparkling in the sunshine. He looks happy, and she can't help but be reminded of how empty he looked as they broke up. She closes her eyes briefly at the memory, pushes it to the far recesses of her mind.

_Not here, not now. _

"Hey Stella," Jason's voice comes unexpectedly. She turns, and takes him in. It should come as some small comfort that he looks just as distraught as her, but it's not.

"Hey. Jason," she awkwardly states, fingers fidgeting with her purse strap.

"It's good that you came."

"I know things didn't end between us the best, but I couldn't not show up. He was a good man," her eyes unwittingly find the shiny wooden casket at the first, gleaming under the soft lights of the funeral home.

"Yeah. He was."

The silence between them is so fucking uncomfortable she wants to scream.

"Was he...y'know...in pain, when he..went?" The words stutter off her tongue, but she doesn't waver from Jason's gaze.

Jason chuckles slightly, a humorless laugh, and glances away.

"I don't know. He wasn't real coherent, at the end. I'm not sure he was even aware that we were there."

She nods, allows it to say all the things her dehydrated mouth won't.

"I should get back to the guys," Jason jerks his head towards the group, turns and walks away. Her mind wants to overlay an image of Clay striding toward the plane after they broke up, heartbroken and yet still so determined. Again, she forces it away, because if she falls apart here she's not sure she'll ever get up again.

People slowly trickle in, most of the faces familiar. No one really makes an attempt at mingling with her, which she deserves. It's the arrival of Ash that stuns her the most. She knows Clay and his dad didn't have the best relationship, and last she knew they weren't even speaking. The response of Sonny seems to bear that out.

From across the room, Sonny catches sight of the older man and snarls, charging across the floor like an enraged bull. Trent swings an arm out and clotheslines him, gets the other arm around him to cage him in. Sonny valiantly tries to fight him off, but doesn't get far before he's being dragged back by Jason and Ray, with Brock pulling security to ward off anyone who wants to sneak a peek. Everyone's attention has been caught by this scene, although they attempt to pretend they didn't see a thing. Ash watches him with an unreadable expression, before quietly taking a seat at the back.

The funeral begins, her mind numbly absorbing the pomp and circumstance, the trite comforting words of the priest. It's all rote, and none of it really matters because a beautiful man is _dead. _

_He would hate this. _

A part of her mind wonders who'll be doing the eulogy, her curiosity sated as Sonny shuffles towards the podium from his chair in the front. He and the guys are sitting together in the first row, one chair left open in a show of deference. Unsteadily, he grips the sides of the podium, sways a little like he might fall over. For a second, worry that he was doing this drunk pulses through her, but his voice is clear as a bell when he speaks.

"All day, you've been hearing about all the things Clay Spenser was. He was a son, a friend, a teammate, and a brother. He was a SEAL, a team guy, a DEVGRU guy. No, I'd like to talk about all the things Clay Spenser wasn't."

Here he takes a breath, composes himself.

"Clay Spenser wasn't a quitter. He did not know the meaning of the word quit. When the world knocked him down, he spat in its face and got right back up, every time. He wasn't a coward. He was courageous until the very end, running into the face of danger to save the lives of others. Never did I see him hesitate or back down from a challenge, and that was true even on our last night together."

His voice has begun to waver, yet he pushes on.

"He wasn't selfish, and he wasn't disloyal. For the cause of preserving life, he gave his own, and for the defense of our country, he made the ultimate sacrifice. He was a SEAL through and through, and one of the best damn SEALs I've ever had the privilege of serving with. No greater man could I have asked to have as my friend, my teammate, and my brother."

His voice cracks, and he begins to blink more rapidly, forcing back tears.

"He drove us all crazy, because he was reckless and determined and stubborn, and yet we never regretted drafting him. We will always love him, we will always miss him, and we will always remember him. Clay you were the best of us, and the hole you left can never be filled. Rest easy brother. We have the watch from here."

Quickly he goes to his seat, hiding his face in his hands. Trent and Ray each rest a hand on his back, although they're fighting back tears too. Tears pour down Stella's face in a dizzying rush, the world blurring from the force. She feels as though she'll shatter into pieces, that she'll never be whole again. The tears subside bit by bit, but the feeling remains through the rest of the service.

Her crying begins anew as the boys lift the casket, shouldering their grief with a look of grim determination. This is the last thing they'll ever be able to do for him, and they'll do it with every ounce of strength they can possibly muster. She is suddenly fiercely proud of them for their ability to continue in the face of tragedy, for their inherent strength. They are the best, the short time she knew them proving that ten times over.

From their strength she draws her own, and that is what carries her to the gravesite. That grit allows her to toss the flower onto the casket, to watch the handfuls of dirt sprinkled over the top. Upon returning home, the strength is lost, and she collapses on the floor of her living room, sobbing until she can hardly breathe.

_He's dead. _

_Oh god, he's really dead. _


End file.
